Beyond Reason
by Simon920
Summary: Brian and Justin have a serious problem with a nutjob. Warning--this is a deathfic, to say the least. Mature teens and older only, please.
1. Chapter 1

**Beyond Reason**

**Introduction**

Who the fuck would do it? I mean, who would actually kill him?

Sure he had some people who weren't what you could call fans, but to slash his throat and then leave him to bleed to death-who the fuck does that?

This wasn't Jason Kemp, this wasn't Dumpster Boy-this was…Oh God.

He fought it, that's what the police said. He fought hard.

Carl told me that he put up a hell of a fight and when I saw what the place looked like-fuck me. Ali and Liston couldn't have done a better job trashing the place. But he would fight it, he wouldn't go down easy. Not him. It must have been…I don't know, it must have been desperate. As soon as he realized that whoever the fuck did it was serious and that it wasn't a joke or just some twisted shit trying to scare him, he would have fought hard, he would have done-anything to win.

After the fucker left him there he tried to get help. He crawled-they could tell by the trail of blood-to the phone. He even made it but by then he had been too weak to push the fucking buttons. It was lying next to him in the blood. His blood.

Jesus. As long as I live I'll see that blood everywhere. On the floor of course, but the bed, the furniture, the walls-it was fucking everywhere. The people in the place below his complained that the blood had leaked through their ceiling and made a mess.

When the cops called me to ID the body-the body, Christ. That makes him sound like a-I don't know what-a dead thing, something that wasn't real or important or something but he wasn't that. It was-shit he was laying in this pool of blood and it was so big, the puddle, that it was hard not to step in it because I had to get close enough to see his face.

Have you ever seen someone who's bled to death? Their skin is really white, deathly white-his was anyway. And it had that texture to it that looked like sort of wax, like it wasn't really skin.

But do you want to know what the worst part was?

His eyes were open.

His eyes were amazing.

It was like he was looking at me and asking me for a favor. He didn't do that often, hardly ever-maybe twice in all the time we knew each other, but that's what he looked like. His mouth was slightly opened and his arm was out like he was reaching or maybe he was trying to ward off whoever was doing this to him.

It doesn't matter now either way.

Later, that night, the next week and ten years later I'd still have nightmares about seeing him like that and in the dream I think I hear him asking me to help him, to find the son of a bitch who did this to him and nail him to the fucking wall.

I read once that a long time ago, like when Jack the Ripper was doing his thing they thought that the last thing the victim looked at before they died was burned into their eyes. They thought there might be some way to get the picture out and then they'd be able to solve murders.

I'd wake up sweating in the middle of the night and I'd remember his eyes, that dead stare and I'd think about that and wish it was that easy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beyond Reason**

**Chapter 1**

**It was a crowded night at Babylon, even for a Saturday. There were a couple of conventions in town, the weather was good and Stockwell was about to be put behind bars. The place was packed and there was a line to get in.**

**The boys, except for Ted who was afraid of temptation were standing at the bar down by the dance floor. Brian was pretending to scan the crowd, Justin was standing with his arm around the taller man's waist and Emmett was sending out vibes announcing his availability to anyone who was paying attention. The music was loud, the bodies were crammed together, it was almost one thirty in the morning and though he wouldn't admit it, Brian was ready to pack it in, go home, fuck and go to sleep.**

**The week had been brutal.**

**There had been pitch meetings, two or three a day, all week. Every night had been a late one preparing; every morning had been early getting ready. He was beat.**

**"Oh, I love this song-don't you love this song?"**

**"It fills the void."**

**"Brian…"**

**He had to or he'd never live it down, not that he gave a shit. "One dance, then it's time for you to be in bed, little boy."**

**"And little boy's big boy wants to go to bed, too."**

**They made their way through the crowd to a spot near the middle of the floor. The others knew to make room for them and they expected nothing less. It was their due when you thought about it. The king and his consort, as it were. They were standing with their arms around one another, there was no real room to actually dance so they were just swaying, grinding against each other, kissing, groping, ignoring the men who watched them.**

**The others either envied them or disliked them, depending on their points of view. There weren't too many who actually knew either of them, their opinions were based mostly on gossip and rumor. 'Kinney's an asshole, a real prick.' 'That twink would fuck anything for a free ride-he's a fucking old digger.' 'They're both hung like Seabiscuit.' 'Kinney can make a corpse come.' 'The kid gives the best blowjobs on the East Coast.' 'Kinney's broke.' 'Kinney's loaded.' 'Taylor likes girls.' 'Couple of arrogant jackasses.'**

**Not too many of the men liked either Brian or Justin.**

**Brian felt an extra pair of hands start on his back and grab his ass. Damnit, he just wasn't in the mood for this, not right now. Breaking his kiss with Justin, he half turned his head. "Fuck off."**

**A voice in his ear and not Justin's, "We could have some fun, him too, if you want."**

**"Not interested. Fuck off."**

**"No reason to be so hasty…"**

**Justin didn't bother to look up from where he had been licking Brian's throat. "He said fuck off."**

**"C'mon, a little fun…"**

**Enough was enough for Brian tonight. He just wasn't in the mood for this jackass. "Why the fuck would I do you when I have him?" He still hadn't even bothered to look at the guy. Whoever he was, he wasn't what Brian wanted tonight. "Come on, time to go home." He stared off the floor. "Fucking loser."**

**Sighing, annoyed that the stranger had cut the dance short, Justin let Brian take his hand and lead him over to the stairs. Out on the street Justin couldn't help it, "I hate it when some asshole can't take no for an answer. I mean, God, he was pathetic."**

**"He just wanted the best, you can't hardly blame him for that."**

**"Like you'd ever do some stranger in a back room." He actually managed to keep a straight face.**

**"The nerve."**

**"Insulting."**

**"Hurtful."**

**"Didn't I just tell you it was your bedtime?"**

**"Always telling me what to do…" They were in the car, half way home. "Never letting me decide anything for myself."**

**Brian parked the car. "I know, always pushing you one way, pulling you another. Never letting you get any rest."**

**"So much of my life sucks." They were walking up the stairs, arms around one another.**

**"The part that doesn't blow." Brian unlocked the sliding door. "Time to put you to bed, young man."**

**"Always telling me what to do…"**

**"And sometimes I have to spank you."**

**"Think I need spanking tonight?"**

**They were on the bed, the orange lights on. "I think you may, yes…"**

**Standing at the largest of the six bars in Babylon, the man Brian had rejected was talking to one of his friends.**

**"Did you see that guy? I mean, who the fuck does he think he is?"**

**"Yeah, right."**

**"What?"**

**"You shitting me? You don't know whom you hit on? Buy yourself a clue, dude. That was Brian Kinney and his Twink."**

**"And he's who-God?"**

**"Yeah, well. Pretty much. He gets whomever he wants and lately he's just wanted his arm candy. Most of the time, anyway."**

**"What makes him so hot shit?"**

**"You saw him, man, you got eyes. And after you get past that he's rich, has this killer place he lives in and he's the one who made those ads that stopped Stockwell from being mayor. He sold almost everything he owned to pay for them." The friend leaned back on his elbows, scanning the crowd. "He walks on fucking water around here."**

**"He sold everything-so he's broke?"**

**"I dunno. I heard now he owns some new hot shit company or something that's making him a ton of money."**

**"So he's one of those fuckers who's shit don't stink. Yeah, sure."**

**"You wanna dance?"**

**"Not right now." He took a slug from his beer. "What about the blond?"**

**"Kinney's twink? The heir apparent? Smart, pretty, snotty-just like his boyfriend."**

**"Couple of shit heads." He finished off the bottle. "I hate shit heads like that."**

**"Yeah, well get used to it. Some people are just born with the road paved in front of them."**

**"Riding for a fall-assholes like that are always riding for a fall."**

**"Yeah, whatever."**

**"Fucking arrogant sons of bitches."**

**A couple of days later Brian and Justin were talking at the Liberty Diner counter. Justin was near the end of his shift and they were going out to get some dinner that wasn't fried.**

**"Brian? As soon as I finish this order I'll just get my jacket, OK?**

**Brian sat chatting with Deb to wait the few minutes it would take. A man, not the same one who had been at Babylon the other night, sat beside Brian, nudging against his thigh.**

**Shit.**

**He moved his leg a couple of inches away.**

**The man pressed back against him.**

**"I'm not interested." Debbie seemed slightly amused by the obvious attempt.**

**The man smiled and leaned his shoulder against Brian's.**

**"I said I'm not interested."**

**"You could be."**

**Brian gave the man a nonchalant but thorough once over. "In you? Not a snowball's chance in hell, asshole. Fuck off and learn what soap's for-you smell, asshole." It was loud enough for everyone in the place to hear and look over. A few of the customers laughed.**

**Humiliated, the man left.**

**Debbie just stared at Brian. "How do you get away with that shit? Anyone else would have had his lights punched out for that."**

**"But Deb, as you should know by now-I'm not 'anyone'."**

**Justin joined them, jacket on. "Yeah, well one of these days you're gonna piss off the wrong person.**

**Brian rolled his eyes. "Come on, princess. Time to keep your strength up for the long cold night."**

**Out on the sidewalk the man watched them go past, Kinney not even bothering to glance in his direction, his attention on the pretty blond beside him.**

**The man felt invisible. And angry.**

**"Brian, you need to be more careful."**

**"I'm always careful." He reached for the bowl of condoms, taking one out and drawing a line down Justin's face to his chin, his throat, down his chest and into his groin with the foil wrapper.**

**"I don't mean that kind of careful. That guy at Babylon the other night and that other guy at the diner you blew off-you really piss people off sometimes."**

**"Like I give a shit."**

**Justin pushed Brian slightly off of him, making him listen to what he had to say.**

**Damnit.**

**"Well maybe you should. What if one of them got really mad at you?"**

**"And what if I get hit by lightning tomorrow?" He was concentrating on Justin's left tit. The one that didn't have the ring through it.**

**"I'm serious."**

**"So am I." Fuck-this was not how he'd planned on spending the next hour or so. "People get pissed at people all the time. It doesn't mean anything and they get over it as soon as they get their next blowjob."**

**Brian was starting on Justin's left tit again with his hand making its way down to tickle the fine hairs just below his belly button. "Stop doing that. I want to talk about this."**

**"About what? My people skills?"**

**"Your people skills are fine it's just that you don't always use them to their full potential-and you know what they say about catching flies with vinegar."**

**Brian was getting seriously annoyed. "And you're Mr. Popularity? I think I can come up with a few who'd be happy to see you walk in front of a car."**

**"This isn't about me, asshole. This is about you being careful and not…"**

**"The name Ethan Gold ring a bell? I suspect he's not in your cheering section. What about the frat boy you banged at Daphne's party then kissed off in front of all of Liberty Avenue the next day? Chris Hobbs?" Brian pulled a cigarette out of the pack by the side of the bed, lit it and settled against the pillows.**

**"That's not the same and I didn't…"**

**"The fuck you didn't. You piss off as many people as I do on any given day." OK, he knew that wasn't quite really true, but the kid wasn't a saint all the time.**

**"And I haven't had my loft broken into or my car vandalized, either."**

**"You really want to get into this with me? The loft was broken into because your fairy brain forgot to set the damn alarm and the jeep was vandalized because Mikey left the fucking thing parked by some homophobic prick kids."**

**"And …" He stopped. This wouldn't accomplish anything other than to make Brian dig his heels in and then it would take another Johnstown Flood to budge him. "Look, I just want you to be careful, that's all."**

**The atmosphere changed with just that. They were both calm again. He stubbed out the cigarette. "Come here." His arm went around Justin's shoulders again, they were kissing again. "I'm always careful, you know that."**

**The lovemaking was slow, smooth. They took the time to feel one another, feel themselves and savor being who and where they were.**

**Afterwards, seemingly minutes later, when they had finished and fallen into a deep sleep they were forced awake by the incessant banging on the door. Hoping it would stop if they ignored it, they both tried to bury their heads under the pillows but it didn't work.**

**Vaguely Brian could hear Michael shouting at him to get his ass awake and to open the goddamned door.**

**Shit. Damnit.**

**He pried his eyes opened. It was light in the loft. Morning. Seven fucking AM on a Sunday. Shit. He walked naked over to the slider. "What the fuck do you want?"**

**"You may want to wake up your boyfriend, asshole. PIFA's main building burned to the ground last night and the cops think it's arson."**

**"That sucks, but I think he outgrew his fireman's hat when he was five."**

**"Carl called my mom. He said they got a letter-the cops got a letter. In fact they're going to be over here pretty soon to talk to him about it."**

**"Because…?"**

**"It says that the fire is Justin's fault."**

**Brian just looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "When did the building burn down?"**

**"Last night. Late last night."**

**"We were at Babylon then we were fucking. He has an iron hard alibi."**

**Michael shook his head. "I didn't say he did it himself. They got a letter that said it was Justin's fault."**

**Exasperated, as he often was talking with Mikey, Brian said, "Because…?"**

**"Because the asshole who set the fire says he wanted to stop 'that faggot Justin Taylor from winning every damn award they had and because he's fucking his way to his degree'."**

**"That's crap."**

**"Yeah, well, the cops want to ask Justin a bunch of questions about it."**

**  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Beyond Reason**

**Chapter 2**

"Mr. Taylor, you have to realize that you're implicated in this whether you want to be or not."

"This is horseshit. I had nothing to do with it. There are a hundred people who can testify that I was at Babylon when the fire was started."

They were sitting the loft, the morning after the main classroom building of PIFA had been totaled in a massive fire that had been set by as yet unknown persons. Two students working late in studios on the upper floors had been killed and among the other losses were hundreds, if not more, student projects and the entire Bursar's and Admission offices, including all of their files. It was still not known if student academic and financial records had been completely backed up and could be salvaged or not. The entire semester could be a total loss and it was too soon to know where, when or even if the school would be able to reopen.

The only department not seriously damaged was the music department, housed in a separate building. It was one of the music students who had called in the alarm, having seen the flames from across the yard.

"No one is seriously suggesting that you personally caused the damage but the letter is very specific about the person's motivation for starting it."

"But I didn't…"

"It seems to have been some kind of effort at vengeance against you. Do you have any idea why anyone would feel that way, especially strongly enough to do something like this?"

"No." Justin looked like he might lose it. One way or another this had been his fault. Two students had died because of him. Brian put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He received an almost invisible smile in return.

"Have you had any arguments with anyone at the school recently? Can you think of anyone who might have reason to feel slighted by you or who may have reasons to feel some sort of resentment against you?"

He just shook his head. Ethan? He wouldn't so something like this. He wouldn't. One of his classmate's maybe? Someone who thought he was getting special treatment because of his hand? One of the kids who had dropped out or been cut from the program? There had been a lot of talk when Justin had sold two paintings from the student gallery and even though everyone had been nice about it, he'd caught some undercurrents from a few of the kids, sort of a jealous 'what makes your stuff so hot shit?' vibe.

But to actually burn the place down? Who the fuck would do that?

"I don't know who'd do this. I…no, I don't."

Brian looked across at Carl. "Are you done with him now?"

He nodded. "If you think of anything that might help us, you'll give me a call, right?"

Five minutes later the police had left and the two of them were staring at one another over the counter in the kitchen, Justin thinking that food might help. Besides, they had missed breakfast.

"I can't fucking believe this-did you see that fucking letter? Some perv burns down an entire school just because he thinks I'm being favored or I'm the teacher's pet or something. This is fucked."

"Do you have any idea who would do something like that?"

Justin shook his head. "I've been going through everyone I can think of and even the ones who are kind of loosely wrapped-I don't think any of them would do anything like this."

"Well then who did?"

Justin just shrugged. Ethan? He was the most obvious choice but even he-he wasn't violent. He was sort of a wimp when you came down to it and he had already moved on to someone else from what Justin had heard in the gossip chain at school. One of the guys who had tried to hit on him in the cafeteria or after class? The ones he'd never told Brian about because they didn't matter? No, it was too much of a stretch. Not even the guy he'd let blow him last month, that time Brian had been in Chicago for a couple of days.

He had no idea.

Brian had enough brooding. "You know what? Fuck this. Let's get out of here. We're fags, let's do brunch somewhere. Get your ass ready to go."

"My ass is fine, thanks."

"…Get your shoes on, twat."

Twenty minutes later they were walking down Liberty Avenue.

"You know, we could actually go somewhere else. It's Sunday morning; everyone on the planet is doing brunch. No one will care."

"The younger generation, no sense of tradition, no sense of the way things should be done. It's sad…Fuck off, asshole." Some one accidentally bumped against Brian's shoulder.

"Fuck you back."

"Brian, come on, it wasn't on purpose." Brian relaxed slightly; the other man deciding to not engage though his look was murderous. He walked off muttering about 'jackasses…'

Justin had assumed that they were headed to the diner, but they walked past it, going to a new place that had opened up about a month ago. It was one of those too cute bistros with tables out front, bright window boxes with a menu consisting of things that were slightly too precious.

"You want to eat here? You hate places like this."

"The food is bullshit, but the waiters are supposed to be hot." Rolling his eyes, laughing, Justin followed them to their table. It was, of course, the best one they had.

Settled, their waiter came over. He was hot, no question-in that slightly vapid caught in the headlights sort of way. He seemed intent on Brian to the extent that he almost neglected to get Justin's drink request. Brian was loving it.

"I told you I'm hotter than you are." Brian was practically gleeful.

"He just knows you have more money."

"That, too…you want him?"

"What for my birthday?"

"I was thinking more like dessert." They came to a silent and quick agreement. The man came back with their omelets.

He glanced at the nametag. "So Brad-what time do you get off?" Brian was all charm.

Brad knew a good thing when he saw it. Two good things. "We close at three on Sundays. You think you may be hungry later?"

"I think I can just about guarantee it." Brian was too cool to break his façade. Justin had seen it a hundred times before. "In fact, I think my friend here may want some, too."

"The more the merrier."

"Corner of Tremont and Fourth, say about four? Top floor."

"I think I know the address…you're a local legend-Brian. Now can I get you anything else?"

The deal made, Brad went back to work and the boys finished their food.

Justin was smiling. "You know, you should write a book about how you do that."

"Some things can't be taught. You're either born with it or you're not. Luckily, I was."

"In spades."

That's when Justin brought up the subject du jour that they had been avoiding. Joking was over, this was about what was really going on beyond the latest disposable trick.

"Brian, on the way back can we swing over to PIFA? I want to see if there's any chance that…you know, maybe not everything was totaled. I know it's a long shot, but maybe if they got there in time or something."

He knew it was coming. Much as he would like to be able to make it go away, he couldn't. They had a problem and a big one at that. "Of course, no problem. The building that burned-is that the one that your studio was in?" He smiled another invitation at Brad when he brought the check.

"You've been there, the whole place is connected by those covered hallway tunnel things. My studio is over in Music, but it's really close to the main building."

"The one that's gone."

"Right."

"I thought there was only one building there."

"There is-except that Music and some of the studios are-were in the annex."

Whatever.

On the way out Brian accidentally brushed against a young woman with a stroller on the not quite wide enough Liberty Ave sidewalk. He apologized and she started to smile at him. "No harm done." She saw the two men together, holding hands. "Faggots." It was said with enough hatred to take both men aback.

Justin recovered first. "Well, that's what you get when you spend a day in Fagville."

Angry, furious at the moral outrage of their existence, she left with her child.

It was just another nail in the coffin of the day.

Diving up Forbes Avenue they could smell the campus before they could see it.

The fire was completely out, the main PIFA building a charred ruin.

They parked the jeep and walked over to see for themselves. Though the police tape kept them back the stench was almost overpowering. All the things that had been incinerated had produced a noxious mess. The plastic from the furniture and the computers, the paints, the wool of the carpets, the wood and plaster of the building itself and God knew what else-the destruction was complete.

It looked like nothing had survived intact. Not a single interior wall remained. There were no floors or ceilings or a roof left.

They didn't say anything as they walked around the ruins of the building where two of Justin's classmates had died. There was nothing to say.

The music building seemed to be open, or at least part of it seemed to be. They went over, exploring, hoping to get as far as the studio. The smell wasn't quite as strong here but it was still pretty bad. That's what a lot of people don't realize about fires. Bad as everything else about them is, it's the damn smell that stays with you the longest.

Going up the stairs to the fourth floor they tried to get to Justin's shared space, but were stopped by the police tape again about twenty yards away from his door.

"Screw this." No one was around. He hopped the tape. Two years worth of work might still be in there. He was about to use his key when he noticed that the door wasn't quite latched. No one left their studios open; everything would have been ripped off inside of a day, art supplies are expensive. He pulled the door open and stopped. "Fuck me." The oath was almost whispered.

The damage inside hadn't been caused by the fire.

Paint had been splashed across the entire room, drenching both his work and the things of his studio partner. The canvases were ruined; the sculptures had been thrown or smashed. The brushes were broken in half; the tubes of paint were all over the floor, color jetting out where they had been stomped on.

The work of both boys had been ruined.

"Jesus, Brian."

"When were you here last?"

"Friday afternoon."

"The paint's still wet. This had to have happened this morning or last night."

Justin was close to tears. Even more than the fire and the police coming to talk to him that morning, even more than the deaths, this was getting to him. This was personal. This was directed right at him.

Brian tried. "Maybe you're not the target. Maybe it was your roommate in this place."

"Bullshit. The letter the cops have mentioned me by name."

Yes, it did.

"Two fucking years of work was here-Goddamnit, Brian, this is…Goddamnit."

Brian walked out of the studio, Justin heard his footsteps going down the hall and vaguely wondered where the hell he was going, too upset to care for the moment. He was back in a few minutes with a couple of largish cardboard boxes he'd found somewhere. "Come on. We'll save what we can."

With no better idea, Justin started going through the wreckage, pausing to call Ken to tell him that his things had been hit as well. He said he'd be there as soon as he could.

Justin paused for a second. "We should call the police and tell them about this."

"Yes, we should. We can if you want. Do you?"

What was the point? Fingerprints or something? "Fuck it. Let's just do this."

There was, surprisingly, more to be saved than either of them would have thought. Though a lot was ruined, a lot had been missed. Anything that had been covered by something else seemed alright. Some of his supplies, the ones in the cabinets, hadn't been touched. The small closet was still OK.

In a while, maybe an hour, Ken arrived, made pretty much the same comment Justin had and started to save his own things. They worked in silence for a while other than the occasional "What about this?" or "this is gone."

His back turned, bent over his own pile of sketch pads, Ken finally said something else.

"Hey, did that guy ever find you?"

"Who?"

"I don't know who he was. Some guy was looking for you a couple of days ago. I was working here and he said he was a friend of yours. He said he'd met you at some party a while ago."

"That fucking tells me nothing."

"Screw you. Clean cut, young, sort of a puppy kind of guy. Nerd. Gay. I don't think he's a student here. He seemed sort of pissed that you weren't here."

The frat boy? Maybe. Shit. He was the only one Justin could think of who fit the description.

But maybe not.

Brian was listening to them. It was apparent he knew Justin had a possible clue here.

The three of them started going over what they knew about the whole thing, talking about the whole thing; the fire, the letter, and the vandalism. They settled in, trying to piece it together and rambled along for a while. Glancing out the window Brian started. It was dark. Shit. They'd been there all afternoon. He was getting hungry again.

They could pick up take out on the way home if Justin felt like eating.

At the same time, on the sidewalk outside of Brian's building Brad was waiting. Asshole, keeping him waiting, blowing him off, jerking him around.

He looked at his watch. Five-thirty

Just because he was fucking Kinney he thought the usual rules didn't apply.

Fucking rude.

Goddamned inconsiderate.

He hated shit like that-people who let you know you were nothing, that they had more important things to do than you.

People who couldn't even be bothered to let you know…

Prick.

Pricks.

Both of them, Kinney and his blond.

Arrogant game playing jerk offs.

He hated shit like this.

He really hated shit like this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Beyond Reason**

**Chapter 3**

"Brian? There were a couple of messages for you from lunch. Did you see them?"

"You mean those pink pieces of paper that said You have a message' that were sitting on my desk? No, didn't see any of them."

Cynthia just gave him one of her looks. They were used to one another. They knew it didn't mean anything.

There were the usual call this client and call that client. Carl Horvath had called. He'd return that one in a minute. There was another one though, the third one…"Cynthia? Who was this from?"

"Which?"

"The one from someone named Brad."

"Pitt?" She looked momentarily hopeful. "He said he was a friend of yours, that you know him."

"The fuck I do."

"Well, his number is there. He wants you to call him back." She started back to her own office. "Anything else?"

"Only that I don't pay you to stand around. Move your ass."

"I love my job."

Glancing at the message from Brad, who ever the fuck that was, he picked up the paper, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash.

The next couple of weeks were busy. Too busy. Brian had more meetings than even he was comfortable with and Justin, along with most of the rest of the PIFA students were helping to set up temporary quarters in a rented warehouse which they were using plywood and two by fours to divide into classrooms and office areas.

The days started early and went late. They were too tired when they got home to do much more than eat a take-out dinner, hit the shower and fall into bed. Oh sure, they made time for sex, but the fact was that they were both so busy and over scheduled that it was almost an effort to find a time when they were in the loft at the same time.

Their social lives suffered, too. Justin joked that Woody's bar take had fallen off by at least ten percent with Brian wining and dining clients almost every night and the back room at Babylon was bereft with out his inspiration.

They joked about it, but they were both close to exhaustion. It didn't matter, they kept going.

The police had questioned Justin again since Ken had reported the vandalism to their shared studio. Horvath told the boys that the fire seemed to be obviously connected to Justin. At first they had all hoped against hope that it had been a fluke that some nut had written a crank letter, but that now seemed pretty unlikely.

They still didn't really know who wrote the letter though Eric, the frat boy Justin had deflowered at Daphne's party a while back had been brought in for questioning. Professing his innocence, he had insisted that he hadn't even been in Pittsburgh at the time, that he had gone to his family's cabin up near Punxsutawney and had spent a few days alone.

No, there were no witnesses, but it was the truth.

His father hired a good lawyer for his son and threatened to sue the PPD for defamation of character and harassment.

During the third week after the fire Eric showed up at the diner, wanting to talk to Justin. They went out to the sidewalk for relative privacy.

"What the fuck do we have to talk about?"

Eric looked at incredulously. "The fact that the cops think I've been stalking you, that they think I'm the one who burned down PIFA, the fact that you fucked me then didn't even want to know my name—I mean for starters. Why the hell did you think I was the one who torched your school?"

"You know, I don't think we should be talking about this."

"Screw you, Justin. You fucked me once and now you're trying to do it again? Is this how you get your laughs, you and your boyfriend?"

Justin started back into the diner.

Eric grabbed his arm. "I know about who your boyfriend is and how he's supposed to be this really arrogant prick. Is he the reason? I mean, is this some kind of game you two play with each other or something? Who does shit like that?"

"Look, I didn't do anything to you." He saw the hurt look again. Damn, he did look just like a puppy. "OK, other than fuck you at a party. I never said it was true love or any of that. It was just a fuck."

"Yeah, I've caught that. In fact I caught that when you told me right about here on this fucking sidewalk—so why am I your fucking target in this arson thing? Am I really the only one you've managed to completely stomp all over? You know something? I doubt that…you and your boyfriend, both"

Justin had about all he was going to take of this loser. "OK, so maybe you didn't do it, but from where the cops are standing it looks pretty damn suspicious."

"Right and from where I'm standing you need to watch who you screw from now on."

Christ. "Are you threatening me? Because if you are…"

"Me threaten you? Like I'm that stupid. You just stay the hell away from me from now on—." He started to turn away, to leave. "And I thought you were going to be my true love." He said it sarcastically. "But you're just another asshole." And he was gone.

Either he was the best fucking liar on the planet or he really was innocent.

Another day in paradise.

Maybe Brian was doing better.

Well, no, not really.

"Brian? That person—Brad? He called again while you were with Revson. Do you want me to get rid of him when he calls again?"

"What did he want this time?"

"He just said he wanted to talk to you, no details. Should I put him through next time?"

"How many times had he called?"

"At least two or three times a week for the last two or three weeks. I can check the phone log if you want."

"No, just…the next time put him through and I'll try to figure out who he is. He doesn't give any hints?"

"He just keeps telling me that you know him."

"Pain in the ass."

"I thought you liked that."

Around four that afternoon the call came in. After the heads up from Cynthia, he picked up the receiver.

"Brad, I thought you might call. What can I do for you?"

"Brian—I was hoping you might still want to get together, maybe after work tonight. You have any plans?"

"As a matter of fact I'm taking a client to dinner. Maybe we could make it another time. I'll call you, alright?"

"…You won't call, you son of a bitch. You wouldn't call someone like me because you think you can do better—you're the kind of bastard who always thinks they can do better and you know what? You can't. You hear me? You fucking can't." There was a pause while the person on the other end of the phone seemed to take a swallow of something. "You know that blondie you always have hanging on your arm? He's nothing—you hear me? Compared to me he's fucking nothing, he's invisible beside me but you're too dumb to even know it. Asshole."

"Excuse me? Who the fuck are you?"

"You're the kind of arrogant asshole who can't even be bothered to learn someone's name—someone who's better than you are and you couldn't even bother to remember my name—not like that little twat Justin."

"Look…"

"You hear me, you prick? You may not remember who I am but I sure as shit know who you are so you better watch your ass, you hear me? You hear what I'm saying? Son of a bitch. Corner of Tremont and Fourth, right? See, asshole, I remember."

Brian heard the sound as whoever this Brad person, asshole was seemingly slammed down a fairly substantial phone.

Motherfucker—who was this jerk? Some old trick who didn't get it? Some one he blew off at Woody's or Babylon? Maybe Justin would have a clue because he sure as hell had no memory of who this jerk was. Hell's bells.

He tried to settle back into his work but the thing with the perv, as he was starting to think of him was getting to him more than he would like.

OK, he knew Brian's name and where he worked. He knew about Justin and he—no, it was too farfetched. Who the fuck would do that?

But who on Liberty Avenue didn't know who he was, when you came down to it? There probably wasn't anyone who was a regular who didn't know that he and Justin were together or where they lived. It was common knowledge, had been for years.

He could have been the asshole who torched PIFA.

Brian dialed Carl's work number. Talking quickly he outlined what had just happened, agreeing to meet the cop at the loft later that evening, after the client dinner. Shit.

Carl had said that they had been concerned that whoever had set the fire might have another agenda than just trying to upset Justin, maybe seriously harm him or even to kill him. They'd talk more later, about nine. Yes, Justin should be there as well—but make sure that he wasn't home alone or anything. It sounded like this guy was pretty nuts. Maybe they should have a car parked in front of the entrance to discourage any unwanted visitors?

No, thanks. There was a security code and the loft was coded, too. They'd be fine.

But still...

The client dinner was real and something that he couldn't postpone, not on this short notice. Leo Brown might love his work, but he had a low tolerance for what he referred to as being jerked around' by anyone. Dinner was scheduled for six, steak and potatoes, thanks, with one beer and a small slice of cheesecake for dessert. Period. That was what Leo would eat. In the half dozen or so dinner or lunch meetings they'd had, that was what he inevitably ordered. No surprises. Ever. Don't be late and don't suggest anything other than meat and potatoes.

Fine, hell—it was just one more dinner. He'd get through it and get home.

"Justin? Pick up, will you? Damnit. Leave your fucking cel on, will you? That's why I'm paying for the fucking thing." He was given the electronic offer of voicemail. "Fine, Goddamnit. Justin, don't go back to the loft before nine, you hear me? I mean it. I don't want you there alone and I'm stuck with a client tonight. Go to Daphne's or someplace, maybe Deb's but I don't want to see your ass before nine. Call me asshole."

Fine, with any luck he'd get the message and just, for once in his life do as he was asked. Maybe.

Forcing himself, he spent the rest of the day actually giving the company some of his time, annoyed that he never heard back from Justin and trying his cel a few more times. At six-fifteen he left for the restaurant and his meeting with Leo Brown, briefcase filled with the latest mockups in his hand.

Across town Justin took out his cel, swearing when he saw that he had forgotten to recharge the batteries. Damnit. Brian would have his ass, and not in a positive way. Not knowing about the meeting Brian was just walking into, he decided that he might as well get back to the loft and start dinner for the two of them.

In Brian's building, sitting patiently on the third floor landing, he sat waiting. He would be able to hear if anyone came in the front door or if they used the elevator. He would know which floor they go on or off at and he would be able to hear the door sliding opened and closed.

It wasn't the first time he'd been there. No one had noticed him. There weren't many tenants and not all that many people came and went.

He'd made a key from a wax impression.

He waited.


	5. Chapter 5

**Beyond Reason**

**Chapter 4**

**Conclusion**

Justin was starting to bread the veal for the parm when the phone rang. Damnit. 

It was seven o'clock.

Wiping his hands he managed to get to it just before the machine picked up.

"What the fuck are you doing there? Didn't you get my message?"

"Why hello, Brian, my day was fine-thank you for asking. And yours?"

"Justin, get out of there."

"I just started dinner-where are you anyway? I haven't put the pasta in to cook yet, but I thought that you'd be home…"

"Get your ass out of there, go over to Daphne's or Deb's or your mother's but get out."

"…What's going on-Brian?"

"I'll call you when I'm done here, turn your cel on, I'll pick you up."

"The battery is dead…"

"Get out. Now. Fuck dinner. Just get out. Go over to Daphne's I'll get you there in a couple of hours."

"Has there been a threat or something?"

"Just leave now. I'll tell you later. Justin-please."

He heard the fear, the urgency. He'd never heard that from Brian before, ever. "OK, I'll just finish…"

"Now."

"OK. I will. What's going…?"

"I'll tell you when I see you." Brian was in the restaurant; Leo Brown was coming back from the bathroom, walking towards the table. "I have to go, but you wait till I pick you up from Daphne's." He put the cel in his pocket.

"Everything alright, Brian? You look like there's a problem."

"Everything's fine, Leo. Oh good, the food is here."

The dinner was endless, days, months passed between the salad and the damn cheesecake. It was eternity.

Leo looked at the boards with the paste-ups of the new campaign and liked them. Well, he didn't actually like them really, they were risqué and sexual and suggestive but they would boost his sales and they both knew that. He was pleased. He OK'd the work.

Shaking hands out on the sidewalk, the men parted, Leo back to his hotel and Brian to the garage to get his car. They had scheduled a conference call for early the next week to go over any changes but everything looked to be pretty much in order. The ads would be placed, the accounts was safe.

Brian pulled out of the parking garage at about quarter to nine, calling Carl to let him know that he might be a few minutes late. Daphne's apartment was out if the way, but he'd be at the loft as soon as he could get there. They agreed to make it nine-thirty or quarter of ten. By the way, the kid, that frat kid-his story checked out. Some caretaker had seen him in Punxy and he had bought groceries and gas. They had the receipts. He had admitted trying to talk to Justin, but he was cleared of the arson suspicion. They were looking at another guy now, some waiter who had been turned down for admission to the PIFA program a year or so ago. He seemed like the main lead at this point and there was some pretty good circumstantial evidence linking him to the arson and the deaths of the two students.

Carl told Brian they expected to arrest the guy in the morning, no problem.

Good. Great.

Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of Daphne's building and pulled out his cel.

"Hello?"

"Put Justin on-in fact, just tell him I'm out front."

"Brian? Hi. Justin isn't here. Was he coming over?"

What?

"He's not there? Did he call you?"

She sounded slightly confused. "I haven't heard from Justin in like three or four days. He had that big project he wanted to finish and he was working extra shifts at the diner-is something wrong?"

"No, I just thought he said he was going to see you today. I probably misheard him."

Like Brian would ever make a mistake like that concerning Justin. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

"No, we're good."

"Do you want me to call around?"

"It's fine. Later."

"Brian…?" He'd hung up.

Fuck.

He dialed the loft.

"I'm not here right now, leave a message."

Fuck.

"Justin? Justin?…Pick up… Answer the goddamned phone, Justin…."

Fuck.

He turned the car into a u-ie and headed over to Forbes.

He hit every red light.

There was construction.

It took forever.

Twenty minutes later he was in his regular parking spot. The corner of Fourth and Tremont. Top floor.

He'd said that to a hundred tricks but no one lately.

The last time was when he'd said it to-to-he'd said it to some guy.

The waiter, a month or so ago when he and Justin had gone out for brunch. That was the last time, the day they learned that PIFA had burned down.

Corner of Fourth and Tremont at four o'clock. Or was it three? Whatever. Glancing up he saw that the lights were on in the loft.

He took the stairs two at a time, the elevator would have taken six years.

Jesus.

The door was open, all the lights on.

It was quiet, the only sound being the rattle of the lid on the stove. The water in the pot was in a hard boil and splashing out a little, hissing when it hit the hot burner.

One of the bar stools was knocked over.

No one was there.

He walked through into the main area.

Nothing.

The dining area.

Nothing.

The bedroom.

Nothing.

Just all the lights blazing, the lights over the bed were on. The closet door was opened.

The bathroom door was closed.

He tried to push it opened, but something was blocking the door. It was something g heavy.

He managed to force it a few inches, looking through the opening.

Oh God.

Oh no.

Justin was on the floor, lying on his back, one hand still trying to loosen the wire around his neck, digging into his skin, a thin line of still wet blood visible. He pushed harder, the door opened enough for him to get inside.

No pulse.

His lips were blue.

No heartbeat.

His skin was gray.

The skin was cooling on the cold tiles.

Oh Jesus.

He was dead.

Brian put his hand along Justin's jaw in a caress but he was dead. He didn't smile back, he didn't turn to kiss Brian's palm like he always would.

He was dead.

No.

He was.

He was dead. He'd been murdered.

He had to call someone-no Carl would be there any minute. He'd do it. He'd take care of it.

Brian was cold and some part of his brain registered that he was in shock. He didn't care.

Justin was dead.

He stood up, suddenly remembering the boiling water. Stepping around Justin, careful not to bump him, Brian turned off the stove, not remembering walking to the kitchen.

He was numb.

He heard the door slide shut, slamming closed. He knew who was there. He didn't even have to turn around to see. He knew. He had remembered on the way home. Brad. Corner of Tremont and fourth. The fucking waiter.

He was nothing.

He was a bug.

Justin was dead.

"Good, you're finally home."

He turned to face Brad and saw the knife he held casually in his right hand.

The fight he knew he'd probably lose began.

He knew, in some corner of his mind that he should be able to take the guy-he was bigger, stronger, probably faster and in better shape. He should be able to do this.

If he lost he'd be killed.

Justin had been killed.

The man-Brad-didn't say anything. He calmly walked over to Brian, over to the stove as Brian put his hand on the pot handle. Tightening his grip he threw the water. Most of it landed on the floor but enough spilled out, hitting Brad from the waist down.

The man screamed, hurt, enraged and lunged both away from the water and towards Brian at the same time, knife in hand. The first slice caught his right arm, opening it, forcing him to drop the cooking pot.

The second slice hit Brian across the chest, shallow and long. The third was the return swing of the knife and cut across his abs. Brian backed away, around the counter, circling, throwing the remaining bar stools in Brad's way, slowing him.

Brian noticed that his blood was being sprayed around as he threw the chairs, the blood pumping out of the cuts and landing on the floor and the furniture. There seemed to be a lot of blood.

He tried to open the main door, but his injured arm didn't have the strength to pull and by the time he got his other hand in place to pull the knife was in the back of his right shoulder and then in his right side.

He spun again, trying for some kind of cover, angry, knowing that he should be able to take this guy, knowing that any other time he'd win this.

Not this time.

Not tonight.

He was surprised that it didn't hurt more.

Justin was dead up in the bathroom.

He had somehow found himself on the far side of the white couch and he watched with interest as the red blotches dripped and sprayed on the white.

It was pretty, really.

It occurred to him that it should be noisier when you're being murdered but all he could hear was their hard breathing and the sounds of them moving around, the sounds of furniture being overturned.

He tried to keep the couch between him and the knife, but it was hard. He couldn't move as fast as he'd like and Justin was dead and…he moved to the right as the man opposite him moved in the same direction, meeting at the end of the couch.

He felt the fingers grab his hair, pull his head back and felt the knife point at his throat, tried to pull away and felt the blade in his neck, around to the front, cutting.

He did get away or maybe he was released, tried to cross over to the phone to get help.

The man-Brad-slid the door closed behind him as he left.

Carl said he'd be there.

He fell, saw how much blood there was and heard a voice from a hundred years ago, "How are you ever going to keep a cleaning lady?"

He wouldn't, that's how. She'd be out of a job.

He noted, without interest, how much he was bleeding. The floor was a mess.

The phone. It was too hard to push the buttons. He'd never noticed how hard it was to push the buttons on the phone.

Down on the street Carl Horvath and his partner pulled up in their unmarked car, parking down the block and watched as a man in jeans and a white shirt with some pattern on it-it was hard to tell what at this distance in the dark-came out of Kinney's building and walked the other way, disappearing around the corner.

The lights were on up on the top floor, they were waiting for him.

The end.


End file.
